V3 Chapter 53: The Berserk War Machines of the Gods
Markus raised his storm shield, his heavy footfalls cracking the black metal floor beneath him, and drove his whole body straight into the enraged Royal Guard Commander.
A heavy impact boomed through the tomb hall. Kartahmen brought his Warscythe up crosswise to block, his feet ploughing three deep furrows into the floor. He was pushed back only three steps before forcing his body to a halt.
A low, cold laugh sounded from within Markus's helm. It had been a long time since he had faced an enemy who could block his charge head-on.
Kartahmen's astonishment ran deeper still. In all the time since he had been given the duty of guarding the royal court, he had never once been pushed back by pure strength from a warrior of a lesser race.
In the next instant, Markus's power sword was already thrusting forward. The disruption field flickered along the blade, and with a piercing tearing sound, it drove straight for the metal ribs of Kartahmen's chest.
Kartahmen's combat protocols responded instantly, and he twisted aside to evade the blade, swinging his scythe up from below in a counter-strike. Green phase light cut across the face of Markus's shield, leaving a deep gouge in the heavy storm shield.
Markus did not fall back. He pinned the scythe with his shield and swept his power sword across in a horizontal cut. Kartahmen raised his arm to block, the ancient living-metal armour throwing off blinding sparks beneath the blade.
The Lychguard's bodies were far sturdier than the ordinary Necrons, and their reactions far quicker. Every one of the Royal Guard retained a clear will and combat experience; they could judge, coordinate, and wait for an opponent to expose a weakness.
Kartahmen took two steps back in succession, then suddenly changed the angle of his scythe, driving it toward the gap between Markus's right shoulder plate and chest plate. Markus turned with a speed that seemed impossible for such heavy armour, knocking the scythe aside with the rim of his shield, and cut his sword across Kartahmen's shoulder.
The blow did not sever his arm, but it left a clear breach in Kartahmen's armour. The living metal began writhing to repair itself, but the repair was slower than he had expected.
Kartahmen was greatly alarmed.
The last one able to overpower him in both skill and strength had been Obyron, First of the Royal Court Guard under Crowned General Zahndrekh of the Sautekh Dynasty. He could not comprehend how this warrior of a lesser race standing before him could achieve the same thing.
What shocked him even more was that those fifty tall xenos warriors were fighting head-on against a body of Royal Court Guard three times their number.
The veterans of the Shadow Wolves of Luna could nearly hold their own against three opponents each, their heavy storm shields blocking the Warscythes as their power weapons tore open the Royal Guard's line. The strength and speed of the other flesh-and-blood warriors, too, far exceeded anything Kartahmen had anticipated.
On the other side of the hall, the four Triarch Stalkers and the rest of the Royal Guard were pinned down hard by the Skitarii. Under the Tech-Priests' direction, the Skitarii shifted position continuously, their arc weapons and heavy firepower hammering the Stalkers' joints and sensory arrays without pause.
The Triarch Stalkers' heavy weapons swept across the Skitarii ranks again and again, each volley tearing away swathes of flesh and metal alike. But the Skitarii did not break; driven forward by prayer and binaric command, they pressed on, using their own sacrifice to keep those massive constructs pinned in place.
Kartahmen tried to reform his line, only to find Markus already pressing in on him again.
Four Lychguard immediately joined the fight from both flanks, their Warscythes and hyperphase swords thrusting toward Markus at once. Markus raised his shield to block two of the strikes, his power sword cutting across to deflect a third Lychguard's weapon, then slammed his shoulder plate into the fourth to knock it back.
Five Royal Guard fighting in concert finally slowed his advance. But they still could not truly wound him, managing at most to leave a series of scorched marks across his shield and armour.
Farther off, a pocket space split open once more.
A Deathmark sought a firing window amid the battlefield's confusion, but almost the instant the rift appeared, three storm shields turned toward it at once. The red lenses of several Astartes helms flickered faintly; they had already committed that sensation to memory.
The Synaptic Disintegrator beam struck against a storm shield, its generator letting out a shrill whine. Before the Deathmark could shift position again, a string of bolter shells was already detonating along the edge of the dimensional rift.
It failed to complete a second shot, and was forced back into the dimensional gap.
This ambush had achieved nothing, and only stoked Markus's fury further.
"Where's that bold talk of yours now, xenos?!"
Markus roared and stepped forward, smashing a charging Lychguard aside with the face of his shield. The metal body slammed into the blackstone wall behind it, the runes across the surface flickering briefly.
"Die!"
His strikes came faster and faster, his two hearts pumping strength endlessly into every limb. The servo-array of his power armour let out a low roar, his storm shield crushing away every angle of attack his enemies opened.
Kartahmen realised the enemy before him was still growing stronger.
This lay beyond his combat calculations, and beyond his understanding of flesh-life. A lesser race's body should be tiring, should be slowing, should be exposing weakness after sustained high-intensity close combat.
But Markus did not slow.
Just as Kartahmen prepared to initiate a new combat protocol, their communication link carried a furious roar from his lord.
Every Royal Guard was ordered to return and support at once.
The enemy had already broken into the throne hall.
Kartahmen's consciousness core froze for a moment. He had never imagined that another approach had already been breached.
"Fall back to the throne hall!"
He forced down the urge to keep fighting and gave the order to every Lychguard. Green phase light kindled at the rear of the hall, and a phase gate began to activate.
The Royal Guard began fighting a retreat. The Lychguard formed a final defence line with shield and scythe, while the Triarch Stalkers began withdrawing as well, using their heavy weapons to hold the Skitarii's pursuit at bay.
Markus severed a Lychguard's arm with one stroke, then blocked Kartahmen's final sweeping strike with his shield. Before withdrawing into the phase gate, Kartahmen fixed him with a cold, unrelenting stare.
"I will remember you, thing of flesh."
Markus raised his power sword, its edge pointed at the Royal Guard Commander.
"I will kill you, xenos."
The phase light swallowed Kartahmen and the remaining Lychguard. In the next instant, only a fading trail of green light remained at the rear of the hall.
Markus found himself breathing hard for the first time in a long while. He raised a hand, signalling his battle-brothers behind him not to pursue rashly. Whatever lay beyond a Necron phase gate might be the throne hall, or it might be a kill trap already prepared and waiting.
The battle had not lasted long, but the cost had been heavy.
The Novamarines had lost seventeen battle-brothers, and the Skitarii had suffered losses approaching half their number. Those massive constructs had caused them enormous trouble; had their weapons not continued operating beyond normal parameters under the influence of Duvette's power, the losses would only have been greater.
A Tech-Priest knelt beside the wreckage left by a Triarch Stalker, his mechanical arm recovering still-functional components from the burning frame. His red robe was torn, half his mechanical body still smoking, and yet he continued offering a steady binaric prayer of thanks to the Omnissiah.
Markus looked toward the runes deep within the hall that had not yet fully faded, and had just begun to reorganise his group when a violent tremor came from overhead.
The entire tomb shook.
Fine black dust sifted down from the ceiling above, and from somewhere far off came a roar so heavy it defied description. Markus's comm channel filled with heavy static, and then a broken voice came through.
"Titans... in position..."
As fifteen Astartes combat formations pushed into the Necron tomb, victories reported back one after another to the Macragge's Honour.
Duvette watched his strategic projection, calmly following one green marker after another advance into the depths below. Companies from three Chapters, nearly a thousand Astartes, forty of them veterans clad in Cataphractii Terminator armour, and on top of that his own enhancements. It was hard to imagine any enemy that could easily hold back an incursion like this.
Of course, this was only the advance.
Truly destroying the tomb's core would require still more strength.
"The second wave of landing forces is beginning its descent. The third wave has entered standby orbit." Duvette watched the surface projection, his voice showing no notable change. "Tell every Astartes formation not to chase glory. The moment they locate a major silence node or the primary tomb structure, mark the position immediately."
The officer beside him acknowledged the order at once.
Triplex Phall's Titan Legion was also part of the third wave. That Titan Legion was called the Victory Legion, and from the start of the landing battle until now, they had been holding themselves back for far too long.
A Titan's machine spirit was, by nature, savage. Ancient, intense, something close to feral, and extremely difficult to master. They carried pride, hatred, hunger, the instinct for war, and the lingering echoes of personality left behind by generations of past pilots.
This time, the Victory Titan Legion had committed one Warlord-class, one Nemesis-class War Envoy Titan built specifically to hunt enemy Titan-scale units, two Reaver-class, and six Warhound-class.
Ever since Duvette activated his skills, the Princeps of the Warlord-class Iron of the End had reported in multiple times. She said the Titan's machine spirit had grown too savage, that she could barely restrain it any longer, and hoped to enter the battle as soon as possible.
The Nemesis-class War Envoy Triple Glory gave the same report. The Princeps of the other Reavers and Warhounds kept requesting to be sent in as well, and several of the Warhounds' machine spirits had already begun resisting the order to remain on standby.
Duvette's order to them had remained the same, every time.
Wait, and be patient.
Now, the waiting was over.
The Mechanicus orbital drop-fortresses completed their final lock on the orbital platform, their massive restraining arms releasing layer by layer. Each fortress resembled a steel shrine descending vertically, its outer armour covered in holy seals, heat shielding, anti-gravity braking arrays, and colossal impact-cushioning structures.
Inside its fortress, the Iron of the End slowly raised its head.
The Warlord-class Titan's plasma reactor began a low growl, its void generators lighting in sequence, its heavy weapon systems entering warm-up. Inside the cockpit, sweat beaded on the Princeps's brow, the savage machine spirit gnawing at the edges of her will.
"It hears the war."
Her voice came through the Mechanicus channel, carrying a suppressed tremor.
"Iron of the End requests to descend."
Duvette looked at the marked upper tomb structure on the projection, then at the Knights, armoured forces, and Astartes formations still fighting hard on the surface.
"Permission granted to descend."
The instant the order went out, the orbital drop-fortresses all released at once.
Iron of the End, Triple Glory, the two Reavers, and the six Warhounds let out a deafening roar within their respective steel shrines. The sound carried through the ship's structure, and even the bridge of the Macragge's Honour felt a faint tremor from it.
Duvette watched the great points of light falling from orbit toward Vulcantia, and let out a slow breath.
"Let them go."
"Let the Necrons see what the Imperium's war machines of the gods look like."
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